Real life?! Meh.

A lot of my friends say that I suffer from a severe lack of seriousness. This is mostly true however, I will try and disprove them in this post (i.e. I will try be serious for a few paragraphs).

So, break-ups are really hard. They are especially so if the reason for the break-up is not because you’ve wound up in ‘dislike’, but rather because KPLC told you that the light at the end of the tunnel would be suspended forthwith.

[Sidebar: KPLC are the main electricity providers in Kenya, and have a reputation of reliably supplying darkness, stolen transformers, and malfunctioning appliances].

I have been attempting this only-like-one-person thing for a few months now, and it was going brilliantly. The gentleman in question had a whole dictionary (and then some) of two word retorts that made it possible to deal with all the varieties of crazy I could conjure. As a result, I started to behave in a somewhat sane manner. A happy medium that is, until two months ago when I found out information that upset the fine balance achieved. Everyone has a past, and the point at which you delve into these stories tends to be a defining moment for a fledgling relationship. It is when you decide that this relationship isn’t the thing for me, or in fact, our collective skeletons have a beautiful poetry that will add to the story of our lives together, and blah blah. IN or OUT.

Obviously, determining the significance of any skeleton requires good knowledge of what one is capable of dealing with. Here I was, faced with information of a past life that, to be honest, I could not rival. I had no story in my little repertoire that would top this one, and I could feel the playing field become decidedly uneven. My immediate reaction was ‘that’s ok, because at least he cares and...’, and things continued as normal. This was followed by an extended period of self-reflection where I walked around talking to myself, playing Eric Roberson over and over again, and reading poetry and James Bond books, and discovered that the relationship was over. 

Now I’m faced with an even bigger problem. See, my initial reaction to the revealed skeleton was >> INSERT EXTRAORDINARILY LONG BLANK STARE HERE<<. I have missed the window by so many months that anything on my part is disingenuous. And anyway, what response is acceptable? Is it fair to begrudge someone a life that they lived before they met you?! If that was the case, I’d probably lose out every single time. How do you tell someone that ‘I found out about this, and while I’m OK with it (for you), we can’t work...?’ That entire argument seems flawed, and yet, that is exactly how I feel.

So of course I’ve reverted to the norm and done the crazy thing. I’ve ended a relationship with someone in my head, and I’m trying to find a way to have the conversation out loud. We're both aware that something has died and been buried (> like a twitter joke), but it really is quite strange not saying it out loud. I suppose we (read me) are waiting for the right time...as if such a thing exists. I’m just grateful that kind mister knows I’m crazy enough to allow me the luxury. Meh. Real life sucks. Back to unseriousness 

(I've just poured tap water out my window to scare away a pigeon, and got the tourist sitting on the front step. Now hiding...)

Sugar, Spice...Maybe, Baby?

I realised my tolerance for pet names is very limited. I received a text yesterday that only said ‘baby’. Obviously, a few things troubled me about this message.

First of all, I am not on ‘baby’ terms with this person. I am not sure what his defunct assumption was, but he had made a gross miscalculation. Anyone on pet name terms with me will know that as the youngest and only female child of my parents, my ENTIRE FAMILY still calls me ‘baby’. As a result, I have never found this term endearing in other settings. Never. Also, when you’ve previously called me ‘sweetheart, hun, angel, babe, wardrobe, shoe’ and I have not responded in kind, it means I feel nothing. Apparently, he had mistaken this passive aggression in the past as ‘shy but receptive of his advances’. Yes, he suffers from that all too familiar ailment of ‘seeing what you want to see’.

Secondly, how the hell was I supposed to respond to that? Shake my rattle, or come out with ‘ga ga ga goo goo’ (or some other lady gaga song?!)? I responded with ‘you’re more than two decades late’, and even more depressing, was the person’s lack of wit. He replied with ‘huh?! So you’re well, babe?’ I began to pull out my hair, rent my clothes and apply ash at this point. How was a brother to be helped? To be honest, a lot of people appreciate being called baby. But if you are going to use that or any other term of endearment, you should expect an unlikely response. This is called preparedness. I once called someone ‘cookie’. This was a good friend, someone I was on familiar terms with. His response was ‘what? You’re going to eat me? Why didn’t you call me pineapple?’ I now choose wisely.

Thirdly, this gentleman is actually full of bullshit. You see, I am not completely against pet names, especially when I know people mean them. For example, if I call you diabz (Origin: madiaba- a Congolese dance style that involved vigorous booty shaking...VIGOROUS), I mean it. You have a nice arse. Or if I say sweetie, it’s probably in a condescending but desperately affectionate manner. My friends and loved ones employ the same rule with their pet names for me. Unfortunately this dude, who I’d only known a few weeks, decided to call me ‘baby’. This conjured images of a composting toilet regurgitating excrement. In fact, I am inclined to think that he had sent the same message out to many females in his address book, and unfortunately B was high up on that list otherwise known as the alphabet.

I’m all for courtship, but I think after the age of 16, there are far better ways to veil crap than in pet names. Rihanna (and the angels descend trumpeting as I make an unlikely pop reference) was on to something when she said ‘make me feel like I'm the only girl in the world’. Choose your lies wisely.

Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner. And Juice.

For the last year, I’ve been acutely aware that I would be homeless at the end of this month. I was reassured that there was no need for panic, that June and July were ‘moving months’, and that I would find a house quicker than I could snap my fingers (which given I can’t snap fingers, is not exactly an achievement). It got to the end of June and I was having no luck, so I did the unthinkable and called on THE ESTATE AGENT.

Henry, that was his name, rang me up and set up our meeting. The first thing that struck me was his voice. He was so concerned, so caring, asking all these questions about what kind of place I wanted to live in, and what I did for a living. I found myself pouring my heart and soul to him right there in the street, with people walking past me and thinking, ‘sorting out a blind date’. It took me a while to realise that what had disarmed me so was his Australian accent. I was already picturing a surfer dude with unrealistically golden locks and a glistening yet surprisingly unsweaty body. Good sense had departed the building.

I had 45 min to get to our rendezvous, so I made like road runner and beeped to it. I got there, opened the door and a quick recon revealed the only non-ethnic person in the room. He was so Aussie i.e. he was HOOOT. I sat in the chair, and tried not to smile too hard, surveying the board with all the flats they needed to sell or rent. I was in an estate agent’s inner sanctum. I expected them to make me sign an Official Secrets Act document of sorts, but instead he came up to me and said something in his heavy voice. Unfortunately all I could hear was ‘that’s not a toad, it’s a fush’, a slogan on a t-shirt I had seen at 7s. I told him this but all he did was give me a blank stare, smile awkwardly and swiftly carry on. He said things that sounded important, and then led me out of the building to the flat he thought ‘would be perfect for me’. I was so engrossed in his face, that I forgot how to use my legs and my sense of direction deserted me so I lapped at his heels like a helpless dog. He talked money, he talked life...and all I came out with was ‘you’re from the southern hemisphere right? Sidney?’ Then he properly smiled! I almost collapsed. ‘How did you guess?’... Conversation continued and the little devil in my head shouted ‘progress’. Let’s be clear, I had no plan. I don’t know what I thought flirting with my estate agent, whose sole purpose in life was to milk as much money out of me as he could, would achieve. But as I’ve said time and time before, I can’t help it.

We viewed the apartment and I fell in love, though I’m not sure I’d be that enthusiastic if it wasn’t for him. He made promises like ‘we’ll do what we can to get the price down’ and ‘you tick all the boxes for an excellent tenant’. I remained mute for fear that if I spoke, I would ask him out for dinner, or say something outrageous like ‘I tick your boxes huh?’ He would then be forced to list me on a register somewhere as a predator.

Back at the office, I started the arduous task of filling out lots of paperwork as he went to get himself (and hopefully me) some lunch. One of the other estate agents came in and pointing at me asked, ‘Which apartment?’ ‘Lakeview’, his boss answered, ‘courtesy of Henry’. I looked up in time to spot the other agents in the office nodding knowingly. I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d just been had. So I casually asked how good Henry was, and ‘excellent’ was the resounding reply. ‘Especially with women?’ I probed further, and unsurprisingly, they all smiled. It appears this flirting-to-get-what-you-want thing works both ways. Estate agents were particularly good at it, but then Freakonomics showed that they’re never up to any good. I’d just been had for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but luckily it was for a house I wanted. Be on your guard...these beautiful men are up to no good after all. He did get me a juice though.

Minor rant...

Maybe I lie. Major rant. I have a thing about not blogging when I’m annoyed about something, because I think ‘foot-in-mouth’ disease is compounded greatly when you do. Today however, scratch that. I am pissed; at myself, at the world, at this lovely bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. So here’s a quickie to make me feel better (as they always do).

I got onto Twitter, and a week later, when I realised people don’t play stupid colour/fruit/country/relationship status games, I deactivated my FB account. 6 months down the line, done with my exams, I figured the only way to satisfy the faux-friends in my life was with a quick update so I reactivated said account for a week. Day 6, I logged on, and saw that a mutual friend had written a congratulatory/delayed birthday message on my ex’s wall. I thought ‘bastard’, then five minutes later, pointed at myself and said ‘idiot’, because there I was, looking at his profile.

Our last conversation was the obligatory ‘Merry Christmas to your family’ message (our families are close friends). He then informed me that he had a baby. I was past the point of caring about this particular issue, because it was a sticking point in our relationship: his wanting a child, my being ‘selfish’ with my uterus while I was still in university, and not fitting him into a five year plan. As I said, he is bastard. Of course when the pressure was non-existent, I would acquiesce to the fact that the idea of a daughter who I could name after my mother would be nice, some time in the VERY DISTANT future. I congratulated him, and forgot all about it. I didn’t even think to ask if he had a girl or boy, which is apparently the norm. I was busy with other things and other people.

So there I was, browsing his wall, snickering because he had ugly spindly legs (new profile picture). Then I saw one of his posts: ‘Her name is X’. I stopped scrolling. He was joking right?! X was my name. The little conniving son of a female dog had just stolen my name. My mother’s name is unique; she was born a few years back (trying not to be ageist), her dad worked under the colonialists, and was really old school (bless his heart), so it’s a bit on the rare side. He’d also chosen the truncated version that we had talked about. Bastard. Then I got even more annoyed, because I was pretty darn sure that despite being together for approximately 7% of our lives, it was a conversation his sorry little brain would have forgotten. Finally, I got annoyed at myself. WTH was I thinking? What was I looking for on his profile? Because let’s be honest, I went looking for shit right?! It’s like reading texts on someone’s phone. Furthermore, why do I care about something that he has done?! It’s not like there was any ambiguity regarding his status as a bastard *slapping myself furiously now*

That is how I ended up here...drinking wine and bitterly blogging. I’m annoyed at myself, for taking 20 steps back in the direction of a donkey walking in reverse...towards stupid. I feel better after this little rant, and will be grand after this bottle of wine. That is all. No. STOP. His account has been deleted. Yes. Now that is all. *HAMMER TIME*

Mojo. The end. Sort of.

So clearly I had taken the ball into my own court, whatever the hell that meant. I mulled over the issue for a few days, the number mocking me and daring me to be different. I eventually sent a nonchalant ‘want to meet for a drink today?’ not really knowing what to expect. Truth be told, I still held a grudge, but something told me that writing off a person because of my issues would be up there with the stupidest things I would ever do. I wore a nice dress to the drink, because that’s what I do when I’m nervous (and most other times as well). But then the not so slight problem of the unrelenting Nairobi sun and nervous energy meant I arrived at the rendezvous fanning myself, shining a little, swearing a lot, and desperate for a drink. I could see it in my head: MISTAKE. The moment I sat down however, order was restored. We were talking, flirting in fact, but in a friendly ‘this means little’ way, and we fell back into easy company. It had been 2 years and apparently, a lot had happened since.

Mundane conversation was dispatched with rapidly, and we began talking about the good stuff: life, and why he wouldn’t let a bet go for a pretty girl (Me people! Me). He laughed off all the little jibes that I threw his way (one assumes he felt I was justified), and was gracious in letting me ‘have one’. I felt a familiar, unwanted emotion stirring in my head, so I did the only thing I could and asked ‘so how’s the girlfriend?’ [Quick sidebar: When a girl asks ‘how is the girlfriend’ rather than ‘is there a girlfriend’, it is a thinly veiled attempt at not showing her true hand. All she really wants to know, is there a girlfriend?? Huh? Is there? Tell me now! I need to know!! It’s sort of similar to that moment as a child when you realise your friend’s toy is far superior to yours and you really want it, but instead you say ‘It’s not even that cool’. This was EXACTLY one of those moments]

I hadn’t given any thought as to how I would react to his answer, given I hadn't anticipated the question.  So when he said ‘she’s fine’, I winced. Well, I call it a wince but it was more of a wheeze that made it seem as though I had impaled my foot on a toothpick soaked in chilli. It was loud, and it sounded painful. Unfortunately, I couldn’t wallow in my wheeze any longer as I realised his girlfriend was someone I sort of knew, and I was turning blue. I tried to hide my disappointment, coughing and claiming that I was now choking (on the drink I had been gulping to camouflage my wheeze. In the words of Mr. Knightley, it was badly done). The next emotion that assaulted my now battered and bruised heart was even stranger than I thought was possible... I was happy. I was actually happy for him, no jealousy, and no dismissal. I wanted to hear more, and be even happier for him. This internal conflict was too much for little young me to bear, and made itself manifest as a grunt, followed by a snort, and then a fit of giggles.

And in that messy, protracted story, my friendship with Mojo was born. I, along with all of you dear readers (thanks for the faith in me by the way :-D), could have sworn that the moment I fell out of the car would really have ended things. Apparently though, I’m like a phoenix, I rise to live another day. Or so I’d like to think. It did make me appreciate just how fantastically different all my friendships are, and that the most valuable start with the least amount of bullshit (i.e. me making a total fool of myself). More importantly, this brilliant, somewhat emotionally crippled person that I am, would have never been had I succumbed to the silly passions of my 19 year old self. FACT.

Mojo, revisited.

I had a serious case of the bruised pride. I mean, I had just kind of thrown myself at a boy, and it had ended abysmally. I got home and my mother excitedly asked, ‘so, how did it go?’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, and I fear she won’t have let it go, so I run with ‘Mojo wasn’t interesting’ (which was of course, far from the truth).

Mojo had a made a bet with a friend. A bet he had made before he met me (#novanity). A bet, that at 21, he was going to keep, to prove a point, as all 21 year olds feel the need to do (I know, I’ve been there). Mojo’s bet was that he would remain celibate for a month, which given my description of Mojo and my clearly uninhibited behaviour around him, you will understand was just ridiculous. I happened to meet Mojo on approximately day 15 of the bet. Which was also exactly 14 days till I was due to return to my little hole many miles away.

I took on the airs of a wounded cat after my rejection, and did what I do best, I deleted Mojo. I tried the assassins but naturally the laughed in my face; not only was I offering a pansy sum in remuneration, but they sided with Mojo. Apparently, a little hurt pride wasn’t such a bad thing for bringing me back to earth. So I had resorted to the manual delete: I ‘lost’ his business card, deleted all the texts on my phone, and then, on a Friday evening, in the middle of prayer, I pulled out my phone, blinked exactly 3 times and deleted his phone number. I could now pretend none of that had ever happened. My friends had other ideas and continually informed me of ‘Mojo sightings’. They really did try to make it a summer of discontent.

I wrestled thoughts of Mojo from my mind and somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that if he walked past me, slapped me in the face, and perhaps even curled my eyebrows (not that I know why he would be doing that), I would not recognise him. I was very sure of this, content that my powers of deletion had been successful. Time obliges you in that way, and gives credence to such self delusions. Two years later, while sitting in the car park of Junction waiting for my brother, I glimpsed a car at approximately 15 metres, moving at 10 km/hour, and turning AWAY from me. Imagine my utter surprise when my heart fluttered and immediately announced to my head that the passing flicker of light was Mojo. These two elements of my body were engaged in fierce battle as to which possessed the better memory, but my hand and mouth had other ideas. His car had now come to a stop, waiting for parking one assumes. I was standing out of my car. How all this happened, I don’t know. ‘Mojo!’ he turned. The ‘real’ me gave my mouth a stern look, but in that moment of distraction my hand was free to do as it wished. Therefore, it waved. Excitedly I tell you. Very very excitedly.

It was very awkward. The location was less than ideal, standing in the middle of a parking lot. These things are never as romantic as movies make out. It was far too hot to just stand there, and there were separate engagements to be attended to. I felt a small lump rise in my throat. Hurt pride. We hugged hello and hurriedly caught up on a few months worth of life, before the ‘let’s properly catch up’ line was bandied about. The problem was I did want to catch up. After all, one of the most attractive things about this man (aside from arms, smile, derriere), was the fact that he was really quite intelligent. Book smart, but more importantly for me, life smart. The kind of people I wanted to occupy a place of prominence in my life. I mumbled something about phones, and Mojo, oblivious, replied that his number was still the same. Once I had constructed a suitable explanation, he gave me his number again, and the deal was done. I skulked back to the car, wondering where we would go from here...

To be completed (after 15th...last exam).

My Reading Revolution!

I was moving house a few years ago, but because I didn’t own a car and I was only moving down the road, I enlisted the help of a cabbie. He took one look at my boxes and cases and burst out laughing, then charged me 4 times the going rate. I had, to be exact, 4 VERY large boxes of books (not school related). A few years and many donations later, including my first World Book day (2011), here I am: trying to recall how I developed my addiction to reading in the first place, and what it means to me.

According to my mother, I started reading at an early age, when I was about 2.5 years old (disclaimer: she’s obviously a little biased). My first recollection of reading though was Friday evening Bible study as a family. It was my opportunity to read in front of my much older siblings, without fear of being taunted when I couldn’t pronounce a word. It also cultivated a love of big words: thou, thine, offspring, commandment, covenant, gnashing, iniquity, redemption, revelation, ascension...and much simpler words like ‘I am’. Advancing age and an incapacity to understand my dad, who often said ‘imbecile’ and ‘uncouth’, made me seek out other books, and soon I was lost in the world of tiny fonts, illustrations and fantasy.

I waded through the Sweet Valley series, wishing for a sister, and piqued my interest for adventure while solving mysteries with Nancy Drew and Famous Five. I lived in my brothers’ shadows, and the only way to get noticed was to show them fancy words that would rid them of the pox of 3 Ns and U (innuendo) when playing Scrabble. I flirted with Mills and Boon, but my mother felt that was a little precocious, and pointed out that she’d assumed I could do better. There’s nothing like a bit of sarcasm to push one to greater heights, and so I fell in love with classics, with Mr Knightley and his loving reproach of Emma. Austen and I developed an intricate dance: I waltzed with Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice), and tangoed like Marianne did, even crying when her heart broke and falling in love with Mr. Willoughby (Sense and Sensibility). I took up poetry, reading about great loves, Shakespeare’s tragedies and Oscar Wilde’s plays. My older self began to yearn for a more African identity, something I was warned would happen, but at 13 I loathed to accept. Chinua Achebe helped me put my fractured identity back together, and Ngugi wa Thiong’o made me announce to all that would listen, how amazing it was to be Kenyan. More recently, Chimamanda Adichie embodied my desire for a deeper understanding of history and my quest for Africanism in her short stories and novels, especially Half a Yellow Sun.

Books are my best friends. Don’t get me wrong, I love people, but it’s the books that I read that often helped me meet these people. It’s hard to ignore the book that will invariably be in my hand, and it means we’ll always have something to talk about. I’ve learned about history: from the Israel 6 day war, to Somalia in 1993 and the history of Al-Qaeda. I’ve lived in 19^th Century Latin America following a family for 100 years (Gabriel Garcia Marquez), and I have seen the dark side in the Picture of Dorian Gray, and in modern day Sweden (Stieg Larsson trilogy). I have been a lady (Little Women), I have been a vagabond (Oliver Twist), I have been a slave (Maya Angelou), I have been on a mail ship (Rudyard Kipling), I’ve been naive and awkward (the Great Gatsby) and I’ve been crazy (Oliver Sacks). I now know Mussolini was a little mad (Captain Corelli’s Mandolin), and that one’s future can be in a name (Freakonomics). I experienced not knowing oneself (Middlesex), to perhaps knowing a little too much (On Chesil Beach), and I have truly seen the measure of a man (Poitier).

Books offer an adventure, a journey into a page, into someone else’s mind, and ultimately into another world. They create possibilities, and for a moment in time, make improbability a tenuous argument. They open up the hearts of children to the lives of others, allow them to relate to the imaginary, and then haul them back into reality. Reading is mental acrobatics; my brain does a back flip every morning and every evening before I drift to sleep, I absorb one ‘last’ chapter- my brain is held in a virtual tree pose as I feel my thoughts rise to another world, and the disappointments of this one become a fragment of my imagination. That is why I read, and why I wish everyone would too.

The Kenyan Reading Revolution think so too, and that’s why they’ve organised this fantastic event, which aims to get the largest number of people (25 000) reading out loud together in a single place. Details and registration here >> http://readingrevolution.co.ke/breaking-the-world-record/register-here/ If you are in Kenya on the 16^th of June or know someone that is, please get them to go to this! It will be a record well worth breaking!